Natural Born Killer
by Serpentine Wisdom
Summary: Twelve years have passed and Yamamoto doesn’t think it’s a game anymore.


**Title:** Natural Born Killer**  
Author: **Serpentine Wisdom**  
Pairing:** One-sided 8027 if you squint

**Word Count: **2747  
**Rating:** T**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or any of it's characters and I'm not making any profit out of this.**  
Summary:** Twelve years have passed and Yamamoto doesn't think it's a game anymore.

**Author notes:** It's a bit AU as the Millefiore thing never happens and Yamamoto quits baseball. Also he might be a bit out of character.

-----

He twirled the cigarette loosely between his fingers then slowly took a drag and watched the smoke softly flow upwards toward the ceiling. It was a bad habit for an athlete, a habit he never would have thought he'd pick up ten years ago when he was still aiming for a place in the big leagues. At headquarters he would jokingly blame Gokudera for influencing him and ruining his career but the truth was he barely smoked as it was. Maybe one cigarette before a job or one a late night with some friends was all he would allow himself to have, even when his fingers itched for a smoke. He had not thought of himself as a sportsman in many years now but his present job required that he kept in shape just as much, perhaps even more.

This wasn't a game after all.

The thought made his throat tighten for a moment in a flash of nostalgia over the old days but he quickly squashed it. He was here for a reason; any sentimentality would have to wait until after the meeting. Speaking of that… where was that contact?

Sighing Yamamoto put out his cigarette in the generic metal ashtray on his table. This wasn't the sort of establishment he would visit regularly and he would happy to never see it again. Spending time at dingy little cross between bar and low-level restaurant in New York at two am wasn't his idea of a good time. His regular spots back in Italy were more expensive and certainly a lot cleaner. It wasn't the flashy, sophisticated clubs Gokudera was used to but Yamamoto liked his places to have high quality goods and service and unsurprisingly that raised the prise. Considering how much they paid him it wasn't like he couldn't afford it but he had never been stingy with money before. This place bar wasn't high class or high quality anything and had this meeting been just a tad less important he would have left by now.

He had been waiting for half an hour already and he was growing anxious. The thought that this might be a set up had crept into his mind fifteen minutes ago but was beginning to seem more and more likely. His fingers were aching to grab a hold of a sword that wasn't there and he forced them to calm down by tapping them impatiently against the worn wooden table. The little rat had better have the information without any strings attached; it wasn't every day one of Vongola's swordsmasters would travel across the world without his sword. Yamamoto could feel the cold weight of his gun in its chest holster but his sword was like a missing limb to him. But running around in the United States with a sword when he was supposed to keep a low profile wasn't an option and the informant had refused to meet with anyone lower ranked then a guardian

Yamamoto looked out through the window. Just _great_, it was snowing and judging by the chill in the air he doubted that _Charlie's Casket_ had paid their heating bills in a while. Could this get any better? With a last glance the closed door he stood up and made his way toward the bartender and soon after returned to his seat with a drink in his hand. It burned his throat lightly as he took a small sip. He stared down at his classic silver wristwatch. Forty minutes late. Damn. Despite his earlier paranoia he doubted the man had set him up. No he wouldn't have been this late if it were a set up. Too suspicious and the informant wasn't brave enough to try anything like that. He began to speculate if something _–someone–_ had happened to the contact, but what? Taking the snitch's cowardism it was likely he had decided the risks just wasn't worth it but Yamamoto really didn't want to have to call home and tell them his contact skipped out on him.

Ten minutes later he was about to leave when the door opened and his contact nervously shuffled through, his dark eyes flickering from side to side. He was average height with a forgettable face and short-cropped dark hair. He was in his late forties or early fifties judging by the lines on his face and the grey streaking his hair and dressed in casual clothes that somehow appeared out of place on him as if he were used to much more formal wear. The nervous shuffle smoothed itself out as the contact spotted him and made toward him. The dark man's obvious effort to attract as little attention as possible would only have had the reverse effect in any other place but _Charlie's Casket_ was as dead as the name suggested with the few people there too busy drowning their sorrows to notice anything at all.

The contact's nervousness was understandable, however, considering this deal would either make him rich or land him in prison – or if it went really wrong, even worse. Yamamoto fingered his half-empty glass as the man sat down in front of him, watching as the contact carefully placed his portfolio down on his lap.

"Bad weather, huh?" The contact said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, I prefer the rain personally." He replied. "But what can you do? Back in Sicily we have a saying: only the sky can control the weather so it's better not to worry."

The contact relaxed. "It is you. Do you have the money?"

"Of course," he said, nodding toward the dark backpack under the table. "What took you so long?"

"Car trouble," the contact said as he opened his portfolio and took out a blue folder and slid it across the table. "Here's your merchandise, you can check it right here. Names, addresses, schedules, security – it's all there."

Yamamoto opened the folder and quickly skimmed through the papers until he was satisfied. "It's a pleasure making business with you. If this is correct then my family will be very pleased, if not… ah well, you know how it is," he said cheerfully with a careless shrug. Then suddenly without warning his eyes turned sharp and serious. "You wouldn't be stupid enough to double-cross us, would you? Because I want you to understand that since I was the one that met up with you I would be held responsible and if I find out you were lying to me that would really disappoint me. You don't want to disappoint me, would you?"

The man looked pale and his gaze flickered toward the door; his only escape from the bar. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Yamamoto narrowed his eyes, something was wrong. "Oh? Then we shouldn't have any problems, Johnny Saunders." The man's head shot up at the mention of his name and not the fake he had given them; his eyes wide as a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face.

"How did you know…?" The contact started before pressing his lips shut. He looked tired.

"That's not important," Yamamoto said smiling. "What _is_ important Johnny is that you think about your future and the future of your wife and little Maggie and Sam."

Saunders' face had gone from pale to stark white in a manner of seconds as he spoke still wearing his wide smile. "You wouldn't…" Saunders whispered, his voice barely audible.

"None of us want anything bad to happen to your lovely family, Saunders I know I don't and I'm sure you don't either, but my colleagues don't like being betrayed. This is just a friendly reminder that you shouldn't do anything that might _cut_ their future short. It's nothing personal," he said as he stood up, the folder tucked under his left arm. "Now if you'll excuse me I have other business to attend to"

He left without looking back at the man behind him. He felt no sympathy for the informant, it was the man's own greed that had lead him into this deal. Saunders knew very well what he was doing, it wasn't as if the Mafia was known was known for their kind and diplomatic dealings after all. It was a though world and if you weren't prepared to deal with the losses you shouldn't have entered it. But the man's family… they were innocent but would be in danger simply for being associated with Saunders who had sold them out for a bag of money. Yamamoto shook the thought. He had made it a habit not to think too much about the lives of those he killed or might have to finish off, it made the job easier.

Once outside the door he slid his hand down into his coat pocket and pulled out a dark, business-like cell-phone. Pressing the buttons, he soon heard a familiar dial tone in his ears. On the third ring a young woman answered, welcoming him to Santero's Pizzeria. Somewhat cliché, but it worked.

"The sky is wide," he said, slipping into Italian, the phrase as familiar to him as his own name. "The rain, one that washes away everything."

"Ah Yamamoto, we've been expecting your call," she replied. "The deal?"

"It went through but my contact was acting suspicious. I don't think he'll try anything but put a couple of watchdogs on him just in case, we can't let anything interfere right now. It's now or never. I'll fax over the details as soon as I return to my hotel."

"Consider it done. The hits are still on schedule, will you be needing any further assistance?"

"I'm in New York at the moment but I need a plane ticket to Boston for the first hit and I need to be there in the afternoon. And I'll need to rent a car and a hotel room while I'm there so I need some money transferred into my alias account Sakurai Hiroto and quickly."

"Understood, we'll contact you later. Base out."

Click.

-----

"You have rotten luck, buddy," he told the corpse conversationally, tucking his gun away inside his jacket.

This was the third and last of the hits he had to take care of. All the men who could have testified against mob boss Dino Cavallone in his up-coming trial had now been taken care of right on time. It had been a tight schedule since they had been having trouble locating the snitches and he'd flown in from Italy just for this job because of it. The Cavallone family was important in the alliance and Dino was considered a blood brother of the Vongola boss, they couldn't have sent just anyone for the job. It would have been disrespectful and since everyone else that could be sent were busy the duty had fallen to him.

He crouched down beside the corpse and carefully turned it over. It was a young man with dark hair and olive skin; his once handsome features twisted in a grimace and unseeing eyes staring at him accusingly. He had just come out of the bathroom after having taken a shower when Yamamoto surprised him. The man, Antonio Scarossi, was a former made man and he'd instantly known why Yamamoto was there and turned and ran only to be taken down by a single shot to the back.

Pulling a small knife from his pocket he coaxed Scarossi's jaws open. "Open up wide."

With single, sharp moment he sliced off the former mafioso's tongue. Calmly he placed it on the man's naked chest, wiped the knife clean and rose from his crouch. Mutilating dead bodies wasn't something Yamamoto enjoyed but this wasn't just a hit, it was an execution. Scarossi had broken the omertá when he had co-operated with the police and in the eyes of the Mafia he was a dead man walking from that moment on. Crueller men than Yamamoto wouldn't have waited until after Scarossi had died; they would have cut out the tongue while he was still alive.

He left the apartment building at a brisk pace, heading for the silver-painted car on the opposite side of the street that he had arrived in. The cold air made his breath appear as a misty cloud in front of his face and made him hurry his steps to reach the car. The sun was shining but its rays did little to warm him. Yamamoto had never been a great fan of cold weather and his mind was already wandering back to Italy. The toyota purred so softly it was barely audible, as new cars were prone to, as it pulled out from the street.

Yamamoto drove at a moderate pace, careful to follow the traffic rules to the last point. He wasn't worried that the murder would be connected to him if he got pulled in and they discovered his true identity. There was no evidence to convict him on unless someone snitched and considering the small amount of people who knew about this job it was unlikely. But he would never live it down if he got caught for a minor traffic incident on the same day he'd completed a hit. The following thirty-minute drive to his hotel was uneventful and he spent most of it humming along with the radio.

As soon as he had entered his hotel room he searched it for bugs or anything that could indicate something was out of place. Once he was reasonably sure nothing was different he called Santero's pizzeria to report in. His stomach grumbled loudly at the thought of pizza and he hurriedly uttered the familiar code phrase to the girl that answered.

"The last hit has been completed, " he said.

"Were there any witnesses?" She asked.

"No, it was a clean job," he answered. "I'll be returning to headquarters tomorrow, I would appreciate it if you would inform the tenth."

The tenth… the word sounded strange and unfamiliar coming out of his mouth. He had always called Tsuna by his first name ever since the other man had saved his life as a boy and it was a habit that he held onto but there were times when even he had to be more formal.

"What about Saunders?" He asked.

"Your contact talked," the woman said. "We took care of him before he could spill anything important, however…"

She hesitated slightly, in a way that he had learned never preceded good news. Instantly ideas of what could have happened flashed before his eyes and the unpleasant consequences that could follow. The best case scenario he could come up with would be that his involvement had been disclosed and the hits traced back to Tsuna. And that was only the best case scenario, he could easily think up worse.

"What is it?" He asked, his heart thumping loudly in apprehension.

"Your contact shared vital information with his wife…" the woman trailed off.

"I see. Don't tell the tenth about the woman," Yamamoto said, his voice was cool and professional, and he hung up.

Sitting on the hotel bed he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Shit, I told you not to talk. Your _knew_ what would happen if you did."

Even as he said that, there was an undeniable sense of relief. Relief that nothing of what had happened would affect Tsuna. Tsuna who was still unbelievably soft-hearted for a mafia boss, who would cry for the families and lives his men had ruined the past week if he knew. Perhaps that was why all the guardians, even the cold-hearted Hibari and malicious Mukuro, only gave Tsuna a watered down version of their activities in the name of the Vongola.

Unlike Hibari and Mukuro though, he hated this part of the job that required him to hurt innocent people. He could do it, and would if he had to without drowning himself in guilt, but he would never enjoy it like they did. Despite that he would continue killing, because that was what he was good at, that was how he could help and protect Tsuna. And if he had to choose between innocent civilians and the Vongola, between them and Tsuna he knew which choice he would make. It was the same choice ha had made twelve years ago when he had finally realised that there was no mafia game.

He had effectively shifted all his devotion from baseball to the Vongola because in the end baseball didn't mean shit compared to Tsuna.

**The End.**


End file.
